


Proclivity

by jaradel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Military Kink, Smut, if that wasn't completely obvious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 21:04:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1579508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaradel/pseuds/jaradel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever Sherlock expected to find in the mess of papers next to John’s laptop, it isn't this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proclivity

**Author's Note:**

> The germ of this fic was born out of a Twitter conversation about John in uniform, and naturally that led to Sherlock's military kink. I regret nothing.
> 
> Timeframe is sometime post-S3, definitely post-Mary. I don't know where she is, and I don't care; all that matters is that she is no longer a part of their lives, and John is living in 221B again.
> 
> Inspired by [detectivelyd](http://detectivelyd.tumblr.com/post/56088611998/full-size-hey-hello-there-this-is-a-really)'s gorgeous artwork of pinup RAMC!John. Please go look at her art!
> 
> Beta'ed by the lovely [agameofscones](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/orithea/pseuds/agameofscones). Thanks lovely!

          Whatever Sherlock expected to find in the mess of papers next to John’s laptop, it isn't this.

          What first catches his eye – sticking out under last month’s copy of the British Medical Journal and a stack of utility bills that have yet to be filed away – is the olive drab camouflage in the lower right corner of the photograph. Sherlock gently eases it out from under the pile, and his brain promptly short-circuits when he realizes what – or, rather _who_ – it is.

          Several seconds later Sherlock notices that he has stopped breathing, and inhales sharply just in time to avoid blacking out. Blinking rapidly, he studies the photo in his hand, scrutinizing every detail. Looking back at him from the photo, with the tiniest bit of a smirk playing about the corners of his mouth, is John Watson. He is sitting on a wooden crate, stripped to the waist, the flies of his olive camouflage trousers unbuttoned and unzipped. His hands are resting on his thighs, ready to slip his trousers off at the moment that the unidentified photographer had snapped the photo. John’s identity tags hang around his neck, the metal discs nestling in the dip between his pectorals. Sherlock notes the RAMC crest tattoo on John’s right shoulder, and is attempting to date the photo when his gaze shifts to the right, and he immediately curses himself for his lack of observation. There, on John’s left shoulder, is the ragged starburst scar of his bullet wound.

          Sherlock frowns. The scar was clearly healed in the photo; still a bit pink but definitely not fresh. John had been shot mere months before moving into 221B with Sherlock, which meant only one thing: this photo had been taken _after_ John had moved in. But who would have had the opportunity to take such an _intimate_ photo of John, in his uniform no less?

          Sherlock sinks into his chair, absently unbuttoning his jacket as he sits down, still gazing at the photograph in his hand. This is John like he’s never seen him before: a solidly built, attractive specimen of a man, perfectly proportioned and very fit. _So this is what you’ve been hiding under those jumpers,_ Sherlock thinks absently, taking in the definition of John’s arms and torso. There is a virility about the man in the photo that initially seems at odds with John’s public persona of a friendly but unassuming doctor, but on reconsideration, Sherlock realizes it isn’t odd at all. This is the duality of John Watson, written into his flesh with every cut of muscle and scar on his skin – the diffident physician who loves danger, the soldier who seems to crave a normal life and yet shies away from it (particularly after his last, and most disastrous, attempt at said ‘normal life’). The man—so much more than the sum of his parts—for whom Sherlock had died, had killed, had burned out his own heart. He’s known for a while now that he loves John, but as he memorizes every curve and angle of John’s body in this photograph, he knows that it’s no longer a purely emotional desire.

          And the more Sherlock looks, the more he _wants._

          Sherlock doesn't often take the time to pleasure himself; he has other ways of occupying his free time. He can rarely conjure a mental image that lasts long enough for him to have a proper wank, but he's fairly certain that the memory of a half-naked John Watson in combat trousers could fuel his fantasies for the rest of his days. Sherlock's head tips backward to rest on the back of his chair as he slides down in his seat, feet planted flat on the floor and knees wide apart. His left arm drops onto the arm of the chair, long fingers still holding the photograph by the lower left corner. His right hand skims down his neck, over the open collar of his shirt, down his chest and stomach, and over the flies of his bespoke trousers, coming to rest squarely over his clothed and hardening cock. He palms himself through the expensive fabric, his cock responding eagerly to the blessed friction. Drawing his hand up and away, his long, nimble fingers make quick work of opening his button and zip. He slides his hand under the waistband of his pants, and his fingers close around the length of his cock as he lets his imagination wander to completely forbidden territory.

_Sherlock sits in his chair, looking up at John standing in front of him in nothing but his combat dress trousers and boots, his identity tags clinking softly against his breastbone. From this angle, John appears to be towering over him, a predatory light gleaming in his navy eyes._

_‘Like the view, soldier?’ John growls._

_‘Y-yes, sir,’ Sherlock whispers. He wants nothing more than to reach out and run his hands all over John’s body, map each ridge and valley of his toned physique with his fingers,_ _tracing_ _the topograp_ _hy_ _of John Watson, but he clenches the arms of his chair instead._

_‘I know you like to watch me. Don’t think I haven’t caught you looking. I saw you the other day, when I was cleaning my gun after the case. You were pretending to read something on your laptop but you were watching me, watching my hands as I worked._ _When I started_ _to reassemble it you’d completely given up trying to pretend, and you watched me as I put it back together. Tell me, Sherlock, did it turn you on? Watching me handle my gun?’_

_‘Oh, God, yes sir,’ Sherlock breathes, his shirt and jacket now sticking to his sweating skin. He clenches the chair arms tighter, his knuckles turning white from the effort, the pads of his fingers digging into the soft leather._

_John smirks. ‘I bet you’d like to watch me handle other hard_ _objects_ _, wouldn’t you?’ he says as he leans forward, sliding his right hand under Sherlock’s trembling forearm to grip the arm of the chair, his left skating up Sherlock’s thigh to his crotch. Sherlock’s cock jumps with interest in his trousers as John’s hand slides up the soft fabric, his thumb rubbing the crease of Sherlock’s thigh and pelvis, before shifting to palm Sherlock’s cock through his trousers. Sherlock notes distantly that a high-pitched keening sound is emanating from his own throat, but can’t bring himself to care as he instinctively bucks his hips into the pressure of John’s hand._

_John draws his hand away and straightens as Sherlock chokes back a frustrated sob. ‘None of that, soldier. You’re not to move unless I tell you to move, and you’re not to come until I tell you to come. Is that understood?’_

_‘Yes…’_

_‘Yes, what?’_

_‘Yes_   _… Captain.’_

_John smiles, in much the same way a panther might smile before devouring its prey, and_ _unfastens_ _his button and zip, shoving his trousers down his thighs_ _. He leans over and_ _opens_ _Sherlock’s trousers, then he straddles Sherlock’s lap, his knees framing Sherlock’s slim hips. Sherlock is trembling from the Herculean effort of sitting so still and resisting the urge to rut against Captain Watson until he comes in his pants like a teenager. John reaches up and caresses Sherlock’s cheek tenderly, his hand working back into Sherlock’s hair before grabbing a handful of the chestnut curls and tugging Sherlock’s head back. Sherlock gasps as John mouths the pale length of his neck hungrily until he reaches the spot behind Sherlock’s left ear. He teases the soft skin with his tongue before latching on with his teeth, worrying a bruise into the tender flesh. Sherlock lets out a deep, wanton moan, and feels John smiling against his neck as he laves the tender spot with his tongue._

_‘That’s it, Sherlock. Make all the noise you want. I want the married ones next door to hear you when I make you come.’_

_Sherlock groans again, the growl in John’s voice going straight to his cock. John takes pity on Sherlock then, reaching down into Sherlock’s pants to grasp his cock, running his strong, slightly callused fingers up the slender length._

_‘Oh, God, please John,’ Sherlock moans, seeking more of the friction from John’s hand, and growling in frustration when John removes it._

_‘Just a minute. I promise this will feel even better,’ John says. He reaches into his own pants to free his_ _growing erection_ _. Disengaging his right hand from Sherlock’s hair, he pulls out a small bottle of lube from his trouser pocket, uncaps it, and squeezes a generous portion into his left hand, coating his fingers and palm liberally_ _. He caps the bottle again and pockets it, then slots his cock next to Sherlock’s, wrapping his lubed hand around both. He strokes them together, and Sherlock’s head lolls back of its own accord as he groans in exquisite pleasure. John doesn’t seem to mind that Sherlock’s moved, though, as he resumes his worship of Sherlock’s neck with his mouth, teeth and tongue, his hand setting a steady pace on their cocks. Sherlock feels bombarded by sensation – John’s body pressing against his, their mingled sweat seeping through Sherlock’s shirt, their cocks sliding together and John practically devouring Sherlock’s neck. It’s almost too much, and Sherlock doesn't even realize that he’s moaning and gasping John’s name until he hears John whisper, ‘That’s it, that’s it, don’t hold back, I want to hear you Sherlock, I want to hear you when you come’ – stroke – ‘right’ – stroke – ‘_ now. _’_

_Sherlock feels his whole body clench as he shouts John’s name, his orgasm hitting him like a freight train as his come splatters on his shirt and John’s stomach. He distantly registers that John is coming too, groaning Sherlock’s name with his face buried in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, shuddering as he adds to the sticky mess between them. Sherlock can feel John’s lips tracing a path up Sherlock’s neck, over his jaw, and finally,_ finally—

          “Sherlock?”

          Sherlock’s eyes fly open. His shirt is untucked, soaked in sweat and come, and his right hand is loosely holding his softening cock. In his left hand, he is still holding the photograph of John. Sitting up awkwardly, his hand now half in his pants, he looks toward the door. The open door. Where John is now standing, holding the shopping. What puzzles Sherlock, however, is that John looks anything but mad or disgusted. On the contrary, he looks – well, _amused._

          ‘I-I, um, well –‘ Sherlock stammers, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

          John shakes his head, chuckling to himself as he puts the groceries away in the kitchen, then walks back into the sitting room. He graciously tosses Sherlock a damp flannel and plops down in his chair, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, his hands laced together over his stomach, completely relaxed and still grinning.

          ‘Was wondering when you’d find that,’ he says, inclining his head toward the photograph in Sherlock’s hand.

          Sherlock feels the heat of a blush creeping up his neck and over his cheeks, provoking a feeling of embarrassment, which only serves to make the blush worse. He takes a moment to process what John has just said, and frowns.

          ‘You-you _planted_ this? You _wanted_ me to find this?’ Sherlock says indignantly, removing his hand from his pants and wiping it on the proffered damp flannel that landed on his knee.

          ‘Call it an experiment. I suspected you had a military kink, based on a couple of cases we've worked. Though I have to say, I didn't expect the results to be this... _conclusive_ ,’ John adds with a smirk. He leans forward and plucks the photograph out of Sherlock’s slack hand, allowing him to at least attempt to clean himself up and button his trousers.

          ‘So who was the lucky person who took the photo? It was obviously taken after you moved in here,’ Sherlock says, failing to keep the defensiveness out of his voice.

          ‘Clara, actually,’ John says with a grin, clearly revelling in an uncharacteristic moment of confusion on Sherlock’s part. ‘She’s a professional photographer, and she was taking photos for an exhibition to benefit the Wounded Warrior project. I did it as a favour.’ John studies the photo in his hand with a soft smile. ‘Didn't turn out half bad, if I do say so myself,’ he murmurs.

          ‘No, it didn't,’ Sherlock agrees, startled by the gruffness of his own voice.

          John’s grin grows wider, and he leans forward, perching on the edge of his seat with his forearms resting on his knees. ‘Well, you certainly seemed to enjoy it,’ he teases.

          Sherlock looks away, ashamed. He doesn't even bother to say anything, knowing he’ll just sound like a stammering fool. He rises unsteadily from his chair, intending to put a significant distance between himself and John before his flatmate can take the piss any more than he already has, but before he can take a step, John rises and grasps his arm, gently yet firmly.

          ‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ John says softly, setting the photograph down on the side table. ‘You of all people ought to know by now how I feel about you. I didn't mean to embarrass you. It’s flattering, actually.’

          ‘Flattering.’ Sherlock spits the word out as if it leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. ‘Not the usual form of rejection, but I suppose that’s because we’re _friends_.’ He tries to wrench his arm out of John’s grasp, but if anything John just holds on tighter.

          ‘Who said anything about rejection?’ John asks quietly, and Sherlock finally turns his head to look at him. John’s expression is open, soft, and – wanting? Sherlock blinks a couple of times, and looks again. Yes, definitely _wanting._ John _wants_ him.

          Wants _him._ Wants _Sherlock._

          John smiles and reaches for Sherlock’s other arm, pulling him closer. ‘Do I get to say it this time? The part about seeing but not observing?’ John says, running his hands up over Sherlock’s arms and around his shoulders. One hand steals into the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, and he feels his head tilting lower, closer to John’s, and – oh. _Oh._

          Their lips meet and slide together, and Sherlock didn't know that it was possible to get high from a kiss, but damn if he doesn't feel like he’s floating right now. The tip of John’s tongue gently touches the seam of his lips and he opens them, feeling John’s tongue slide against his own and _holy fucking Jesus_ this feels good. Sherlock feels his cock beginning to take interest in the proceedings and dimly notes that his refractory period is rather short, all things considered, before his brain stutters to a halt as John’s other hand skims down his back and squeezes his arse.

          Sherlock will forever deny the whine that escapes his throat, but he knows John will never let him forget it.

          John pulls back, places a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s reddened lips, and looks up through golden eyelashes. ‘Why don’t we take this back to your room, and you can tell me what you were thinking about before I came home, hmmm?’ John practically purrs.

          ‘Yeah – um, good. That's – that's good.’ Sherlock wonders when he’ll stop speaking in words of one syllable, but that particular issue seems a great deal less important when John takes him by the hand and leads him back to the bedroom.


End file.
